where all the poets went to die [dead poets society]

6 - why do women swoon?

"You're annoying, Charlie Dalton."

"You like it though, Maria Keating."

She made a funny noise. "What?"

"You're just saying that doll," Charlie said, lowering his voice. "You don't really find me annoying. You find me charming, I'm sure of it."

Maria didn't say anything but was looking at him with an unreadable expression. It was somewhere between disbelief and amusement, and Charlie soaked in the fact that her cheeks were definitely pink and she was definitely blushing.

"You're impossible," she mumbled, more to herself than him, and moved away from him toward Neil. "Look, there's Uncle John."

"Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating?" Neil called out as the group moved closer to Keating who was walking down toward the lake, whistling a familiar tune. "Sir?"

Maria nudged Neil. "Captain," she mouthed.

"Oh Captain, My Captain?" Neil tried.

Keating turned almost immediately. "Gentlemen," he nodded. "Maria."

"We were just looking in your old annual," Neil said, brandishing the annual he had tucked under his blazer. He held it out for Keating to take who flipped it open to his photograph and let out a breathy laugh.

"Oh, my God. No, that's not me," Keating said wistfully, his eyes focused on the picture of his younger self.

"What was the Dead Poets Society, Sir?" Neil asked.

Keating looked up to glance at all the inquisitive faces around him. "I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that," he said.

"Why? What was it?"

Keating lowered his voice. "Can you all keep a secret?"

The group nodded, leaning toward Keating with restrained excitement.

"The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see, we'd gather at the old cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment, we'd let poetry work its magic."

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" Knox asked with a laugh.

"No, Mr. Overstreet," Keating shook his head. "It wasn't just "guys", we weren't a Greek organization. We were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drop from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created. Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?"

Maria looked at her uncle. "Father was a part of it too, wasn't he?" She asked.

Keating smiled and nodded. "He'd sneak your mother out from Henley Hall every once in a while to join as well," he said, wiggling his brows. "See? Not just "guys", gentlemen."

The others looked between one another as Keating handed the annual back to Neil. "Thank you, Mr. Perry, for this trip down amnesia lane. Now, burn that, especially my picture," he said before turning and walking away.

"Dead Poets Society," Neil breathed after Keating had left.

"What about it?" Cameron questioned.

The school bell rang telling the group to start returning to class.

"I say we go tonight," Neil said, turning so that he was walking backwards toward the school and facing the others.

"Tonight?" Charlie asked.